Apr 1, 2018 - The Hazards of Self-Taught Magic
by Uvatha the Horseman
Summary: Prince Tindomul (the Witch King of Angmar) plans to sail from Númenor to Valinor in an early attempt to break the Ban.
1. The New Ship

**The New Ship**

The great ship rested in a cradle of scaffolding, almost crushing it. The smell of new wood, of pitch and rope, overpowered the scent of salt from the ocean.

From the platform where he stood with the rest of the royal family, Prince Tindomul shivered in the shadow of the huge vessel. Designed and built by his father, Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, twelfth king of Númenor, the new ship was his father's own design, having consumed more treasure than any other built by this seafaring nation. Tindomul would captain it, an honor for one so young, and a grave responsibility.

Seagulls wheeled overhead, their mewing call at the same time mournful and festive. Tindomul looked up. A bundle of sweet herbs had been tied under the bowsprit, purple sage and rosemary mixed with wildflowers, an offering to Ossë. It would be the only sacrifice the sea god received today. Given the importance of the vessel and the dangers it would face, Tindomul had urged his father to make a human sacrifice, but Tar-Ciryatan had refused. The political climate was tense right now and a human sacrifice would generate too many letters from concerned citizens. No one wanted that.

A launch is a great day in the life of a ship. Tar-Ciryatan had chosen an auspicious day, the Spring Equinox, when the days were as long as the nights. It symbolized Equality. If this mission went as planned, Númenorians would become equal to the Elves. But the mission must remain secret for just a little longer.

Most of the city had come out to watch the launch, if only for the free food. White canvas tents leaned against the workshop buildings and all around the shipyard. Smoke rising from them carried the aroma of roasting meat and spices. Long lines snaked from the tables, and also from the tables where casks of chilled wine were being poured. The sun beat down. Dogs darted around people's legs, and the sea breeze carried snatches of music, a popular drinking song.

Father raised his arm, and the crowd fell silent. The drumming rose in pitch, followed by a deep peal from a gong. A battering ram swung loose and struck away a post, its slender girth the only support holding back the downward-leaning ship.

The vessel hung in the air for a long moment, then began to tip forward until the keel fell between two greased timbers leading to the waterline. It rushed forward with breathtaking speed. The hull smacked the water, disappearing below the surface and raising a huge surge on either side. The vessel wallowed bow and stern, then settled upright, bobbing on the swell. A great cheer rose from the crowd.

Father stiffened. Every shipwright finds a launch suspenseful. The vessel might float or it might sink to the bottom, a few feet below the surface. Five minutes became ten. The ship continued to ride high in the water. Father began to relax.

Tindomul admired the vessel. Long and narrow, its deck was only a few feet above the water. The rudder, mounted to port, was controlled by a long tiller. The sails of its two masts could be handled by a crew of ten, easily. It was smaller than a cargo ship, but Tindomul knew it had taken far more labor and treasure to build.

Father addressed the crowd. "People of Númenor, sailors and merchants and fishermen. I present to you the fastest and most advanced ship ever built by our island nation. This ship will let us do something we've never been able to manage before, make the three-day run to the Mainland in less than a day."

That was a lie. Not about the ship's performance, but about its mission.

From his vantage point on the platform, Tindomul watched a small group at the back of the shipyard, standing apart from the crowd. They weren't cheering, and their tepid applause died out after one or two claps.

The Faithful. They were easy to recognize because they still wore Elvish-style clothing. Everything about them was hopelessly old-fashioned. When Númenorian nationalism swept the Island, most people abandoned the long, sinuous robes in favor of traditional Númenorian clothing, short tunics in bright colors, decorated with metallic trim. The Faithful hadn't adapt the new fashion any more than they'd adapted modern ways of thinking, sticking with the old style of clothing and the old, subordinate relationship with the Elves.

Tindomul wondered why the Faithful were attending the launch at all. They were hostile toward the Crown, but there weren't many of them and they mostly kept to themselves. Oh well, never attribute to malice that which is completely explained by free food.

The crowd began to disperse. Tindomul came down from the stand, trailing in the wake of the rest of the family. On the way out of the shipyard, he passed a group of the Faithful, their woodland-colored robes embroidered in patterns of leaves. Someone hissed, "Black Númenorian!" Tindomul whirled around with his hands clenched in fists, but was met by a wall of expressionless faces.


	2. The True Mission

**The True Mission**

After the launch, Tindomul followed Father and Atanamir to the private apartments within the Palace. A servant set a tray of wine goblets in front of them. Father leaned back in his chair. "I think that went pretty well."

"The new ship didn't sink," said Atanamir.

"I meant, there wasn't rioting between the two factions," said Father.

"The Faithful. What a bunch of Elf lovers. You know, Tindomul, with your clean-shaven jaw and long hair, you could pass for an Elf," said Atanamir.

Tindomul was proud of the blue-black hair that fell halfway down his back. He wasn't about to cut it."I may have Elvish blood, but that doesn't make me Elvish," he said, annoyed.

"I believe you. You don't act Elvish. I haven't seen you swear a really unfortunate oath, then kill your relatives. Oh wait, that would be us," said Atanamir.

Not funny. Tindomul was tall and slender, but he was Númenorian to the core of his being.

Tar-Ciryatan waved a hand to break it up. "Speaking of Elves, I heard a good one. How any Elves does it take to refill a lamp?" He waited. "It doesn't matter. They wouldn't actually refill the lamp, they'd just sit around lamenting about great it was in the old days before the oil ran out."

They finished the last course and the dishes were cleared away. The lamps burned low and began to sputter. Father dismissed the servants, then closed and bolted the door behind them. "We're alone now. We can speak openly."

"Is that a good idea?" asked Atanamir.

Tar-Ciryatan returned to his chair and rested a foot on the low table.

"Let's speak plainly. Tindomul, you will captain the ship. You'll sail west to Valinor, make landfall, and set foot on the beach. Once you're there, you'll collect a handful of sand and bring it back to Númenor. Whatever happens, don't be seen, and don't get caught."

Finally, behind closed doors, Father had said it aloud. They were going to break the Ban.

The Ban of the Valar. Men were forbidden to sail any further west than within sight of their own island. That was the closest they could hope to come to Undying Lands, home of the Valar. For a sea-faring nation, it was a hardship to stay within sight of land. For a culture preoccupied with mortality, it was was taunting and cruel.

No such constraint lay upon the Elves. The Elves were welcome to visit Undying Lands, home of the Valar. Consequently, the Elves were immortal, while Men aged and died. The Elves' favored status was the main source of friction between the two races.

Father continued. "We know the Undying Lands confer immortality. But does that mean setting foot on the beach, or going there to live? Will the effect wear off if …"

"Father, I want to sail West. I want to be the one to break the Ban." Atanamir stood rigidly, with his fists clenched at his sides.

"You're a courtier. You barely know how to pilot a boat. Tindomul's a famous mariner and explorer, the honor goes to him." Tar-Ciryatan's eyes narrowed.

Atanamir swept out of the room, and the door slammed behind him.

###

Tindomul never slept well, but tonight was particularly bad. He kept starting awake from dreams about the western seas, of waterfalls spilling over the edge of the world, of whirlpools that could devour a ship, of lightning bolts striking too close to the ship and threatening to splinter the mast.

He didn't need the astrologer to interpret his dreams for him. He was terrified about sailing to Valinor. He didn't dwell on it when he was around light and people, but alone at night, the fear weighed heavy on him.

The hiss of fabric against curtain rod reached him in his sleep. He struggled to come fully awake, but it was like trying to swim to the surface from deep underwater. His fingers closed around the dagger under the pillow. The heavy bed curtains gapped open, showing a triangle of moonlit sky against the darker shadows of the room.

The edge of the mattress sank beneath someone's substantial weight. Whatever it was had breath like rotten fish. A damp nose pushed under his chin, and something thump-thumped against the ceramic floor tiles. Griffin.

He moved over to let the great mastiff into the bed beside him. Griffin thought he was still a puppy, even though, by now, he outweighed his master. Tindomul draped an arm around him and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Self-Taught Magic

**Self-Taught Magic**

When Tindomul awoke, a breeze from the ocean was stirring the sails of a battered model ship on the windowsill, something Father had made to illustrate the design of one of his ships. Tindomul and Atanamir had played with it for an entire summer when they were small. The breeze stirred the bed curtains, the dark red silk moving with the air. Griffin lay on the foot of the bed, twitching in doggie dreams.

He woke up feeling faintly anxious, and then the memory hit him like a hammer blow. He was going to break the Ban. He felt cold all over, and his skin was clammy. Weapons would be useless against the Valar. He would trespass on their land unarmed, and hope to come and go unnoticed. He would need magic on this mission.

Since he was young, Tindomul had been fascinated by magic, but he knew only a few simple spells, little more than parlor tricks. But he felt sure magic could help him find his way across trackless seas, let him see in the dark, and make him invisible.

His best trick was a spell to light a candle. For a long time, he'd been considering how to modify it for military use: to set the sails of enemy ships ablaze, ignite a wooden structure like a fortification of sharpened tree trunks, or throw up a wall of flame before advancing enemy foot soldiers.

He sketched the workings of the spell on a scrap of paper. As far as he could tell, it was a matter of scale. He knelt before the hearth and arranged pieces of kindling with shaved curls of wood for tinder.

Satisfied, he sat back on his heels and spoke the words of the new spell. A fireball blew out of the hearth and enveloped him. It was so hot it felt cold. Tindomul threw himself backwards and rolled on the carpet. Dark blotches danced in the center of his vision. When his vision returned, he swatted out still-burning spots on his clothes. There was soot on the front of his tunic and his sleeves were charred around the cuffs.

Something smelled like burning feathers, so pungent it brought tears to his eyes. He touched his forehead. His hair was stiff and wiry, and his face felt sunburned.

He came down to dinner that night, not looking anyone in the eye.

"What's that smell? And what happened to your eyebrows?" said Atanamir.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Tindomul. "And anyway, eyebrows are overrated."

###

The next morning, Tindomul climbed the narrow stairs to the Observatory, lair of the court astrologer. This might be a fool's errand. Court astrologers were described as practitioners of magic, but Tindomul wasn't sure. Astrologers read the stars and made prophesies, but they didn't cause anything to happen. Tindomul didn't care about prophecies, he didn't even believe in them. Nonetheless, if the astrologer did happen to know any spells, Tindomul was interested in hearing about them.

Tindomul reached the highest landing, then knocked and went in. The astrologer was seated at a table, taking apart a brass instrument that looked like an astrolabe, except that it had more parts.

Tindomul waited until the astrologer looked up before asking his question. "Like any mariner, I navigate by the stars. But on a cloudy night, I lose all sense of direction. Do you have a spell that can help?"

"Not a spell, more of an awareness. Close your eyes, and feel the energy from the Load Star," said the astrologer.

Tindomul squeezed his eyes shut and listened with his whole body. Nothing.

"Turn to port. Notice what changes," said the astrologer.

Tindomul turned slightly, keeping his eyes tightly closed. Within himself, he felt something stay the same while he rotated away from it. Something constant, pointing true north. "I felt something. What was it?" he asked.

"The Lode Star creates an energy that surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the world together," said the astrologer.

"Does it have a Dark Side?" Tindomul asked.

"Don't be stupid. It's just a magnetic field."

###

Back in his rooms, Tindomul stood with his eyes closed and waited until he sensed the energy radiating from the Load Star. He turned, and found he could perceive a slight shift, enough to tell him which way was north.

He went below-stairs to a place in back of the kitchens where the passages were narrow and irregular. He drew a detailed map and memorized it, then closed his eyes and waited until he felt the energy from the Load Star coursing through him. He turned slightly and felt it shift. He took ten steps forward, turned, took five more steps, turned, and walked forward again.

Whack! Stars filled his vision and he sat down hard. He put a hand to his face and drew it away, expecting to see blood. He'd run into the stone corner of a doorway. He knew where he was, but was a step further along than he'd thought.

An hour later, the bruise around his eye was the size of a fist, and purple-black. He considered having a tray sent to his room, but it would only bring the whole family up to check on him.

When Tindomul entered the dining room, Atanamir's jaw dropped. "What happened to you? Did you run into the Faithful and have a chat about our little differences?"

"No, I ran into a door. Its door buddies egged it on and held its coat while it took a swing at me," said Tindomul.

###

Tindomul went back to the astrologer the next day. Mercifully, the old man didn't say anything about the bruise under his eye, the purple giving way to yellow-green. Tindomul was done with that project and ready to start on a new one.

"I want to approach an unfamiliar coast in a heavy fog. Can you have a spell to let me do that?"

No mariner with his wits intact would approach an unfamiliar coastline blind. No one can navigate to shore using the sound of surf breaking on rocks. But Tindomul was trying to land on Valinor. He'd be safe only if he made landfall under cover of mist and darkness.

"I have a spell to see through walls. Let's start with that," said the astrologer.

"Will it help me see through fog?" asked Tindomul.

"Hard to say. Try it and see," said the astrologer.

###

Back in his room, Tindomul practiced the spell to see through walls. He focused, and the wall between the main room and his bed chamber turned translucent, like still water. The effect lasted for just a moment, and then it was gone. He closed his eyes, and found he could see more clearly using his mind alone.

All he had to do now was adapt the spell to see through darkness and fog. As far as he could tell, that meant lengthening the range.

He left his rooms and headed for the library, in another building in the Palace compound. Among all the volumes and scrolls stored there, there had to be something about modifying spells.

In the Great Hall, he crossed paths with his favorite auntie. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she smiled a greeting which dimpled her plump cheeks.

Beneath the heavy brocade of her robes, her linen shift appeared translucent, and in need of the laundry. Beneath it, her breasts hung to her waist, the skin the grey-white of a fish's underbelly. He looked down. Her stomach hung in folds, distended from childbearing and age. Behind the flesh, grey entrails lay coiled like a python. He turned and fled.

"Tindomul? Tindomul, what's wrong?" his aunt called to his retreating back. Tindomul ignored her. He wanted to plunge his head into a horse trough, scrape his eyes, drink away the memory.

Outside, he took a few moments to let his heart slow down. When he looked at the grass, he could see the dirt and rocks beneath it. A few minutes later, he could only see the grass, although it looked a little wavery. Good, the spell was wearing off.

Beside the crushed shell path between buildings, the first of the small yellow wildflowers, his sister's favorites, had begun to bloom. She'd miss seeing them this year. She'd died in childbirth six weeks ago. The thought stung him like the slash of a blade. His sister wasn't here to enjoy this day, but he could still bring her flowers. He bent down and picked a handful to take to her. It took a while to gather a decent-sized bunch as the air was still chilly in late March and not many of the yellow blossoms had opened.

He hiked up a little trail above the city into the foothills of the mountain. It led to a cluster of stone grave markers and tombs where his family buried their dead. Over the ocean, the sun had burned off the morning sea mists. From this height, the whole of the harbor stretched out before him. He was always surprised by how large it was, and how large the size of Númenor's fleet.

He walked between the tombs. The limestone wall of the nearest sarcophagus wavered and faded. Behind the wall lay what remained of his second cousin, entombed here when he died of a fever last fall. The rich fabric of his grave garments retained their color. Fluid had soaked into them, making the lower portion black and stiff. A puddle of black fluid surrounded the corpse, which seemed to be covered with whitish mold. He turned and fled, leaving the flowers scattered on the path.


	4. The Elvish Emissary

**The Elvish Emissary**

The door struck the wall. Tindomul looked up, startled. Tar-Ciryatan blocked the entrance, red-faced and waving his arms.

"An emissary from Gil-galad's court just arrived. He says he's come to renew our ancient friendship. Who invited him here? It wasn't me. The Elves are always writing to me, and I never answer. But why now? The timing couldn't be worse." His shoulders sagged. "Well, he's here and it can't be helped. Put on your best court clothes and meet me in the audience chamber in five minutes. No wait! Can you turn something invisible? I need you to hide the new ship. Go to the shipyard and make it disappear, I don't want the emissary to see it."

Down at the harbor, Tindomul stood at the edge of the quay, thinking. The issue was one of scale. He could make a pebble or a small coin disappear, but not an object as large as a ship.

A boat was an in animate object. As long as it was tied up at the wharf, it stayed one place. If he could put sort of a veil around this to make it blend in the background, he could create the appearance of an empty slip.

Tindomul spoke the words of a concealment spell. Water lapped against the stone wall of the quay, and ropes were still tied around the mooring posts, but they didn't seem to go anywhere.

The harbor master wandered over and stood beside him. "Where's the new ship?" He sounded alarmed.

Tindomul said, "It's right here, but I've masked it with a spell. We have visitors, and I'd rather not have it on display at the moment."

Just then, a huge cargo vessel pulled up. Spotting an empty space large enough to squeeze into, it dropped sail and drifted toward the illusion of an empty slip. Tindomul tried to speak the counter charm but came up blank. He didn't know any counter charms to break spells, he had to wait for spells to wear off.

The harbor master waved his arms and called to the warship to back off, but momentum carried it forward. Sailors on board stood along the rails ready to fend off with wooden poles. There was a sickening crunch.

"Ossë's butt crack, what was that?" A sailor leaned over the rail, studying the bits of new wood that littered the still water between the cargo ship and the still-invisible ship.

Tindomul trudged back up to the Palace. However unpleasant the audience with the Elvish emissary turned out to be, it had the function of delaying his conversation with Father about what he'd just done to the new boat.

###

The Great Hall rang with the noise of people in a festive mood, appropriate to a feast.

Tindomul looked around the room. It was easy to tell, just by their clothing, who was a Númenorian nationalist and who still sided with the Elves. Most people present wore the easy-to-move-in clothing native to Númenor. Only a few kept to the stiff formal robes in imitation of the Elves.

A servant came around with the pitcher and filled their wine goblets. Father leaned back in his throne-like chair in the center of High Table, looking relaxed.

Tindomul missed the formal audience in the throne room where Father received the emissary. He'd been at the shipyard, hiding the new ship. But no matter, everything that happened during the formal audience, the exchange of carefully thought-out greetings and diplomatic gifts, was just for show. This dinner was the part of the visit where the real work of diplomacy got done.

As relaxed as the feast might seem, a high-stakes game was being played here. The emissary was trying to find out what the Númenorians were up to, and Father was trying to hide it from him. Although if he'd had less to drink, he'd have done a better job of it.

"It's been a long day. You must have found it Undying, I mean unending," said Father. And later, "We must seem decadent compared to what you're used to. I hope you didn't find us too immortal, I mean immoral."

The Elvish emissary put down his goblet, then leaned close to Father and lowered his voice. "I want to tell you something, not in an official capacity, but as a friend. They're called the Undying Lands because the Immortals live there, but the land itself is nothing special. The grass is just grass, and the cows are just cows. Sailing into the West won't make you immortal."

Father turned away as if he didn't care to discuss the subject further.

At the end of the evening, the emissary pushed back his chair and got up to leave. His silver robes fell to the floor and swept around his feet, while clinging to his body.

Father watched him leave. "The emissary must think he's attractive. Do you know why? Because whenever he walks away, people say, 'What an ass.'"

###

The next day, the emissary returned home. Tindomul walked him to the ship that would bear him back to his masters at Gil-galad's court. Tindomul wondered what the emissary would report. A groundswell of public opinion about breaking the Ban? The emissary's manner had been pleasant, but that "friendly" warning was ominous. He might even guess they'd already built a ship to travel to Valinor.

Their route took them through the shipyard. Tindomul tried to hide his anxiety. He was never sure how long it would take for one of his spells to wear off. Tindomul's eyes stole toward the seemingly empty slip. With effort, he could see through the spell and detect the outlines of the ship, glassy and transparent like a mirage. The invisibility spell was still holding, although fragments of new wood floated in the water, making a boat-shaped outline.

"What are you looking at?" asked the Emissary.

"I wondered why we have an empty slip," said Tindomul. He looked the Elvish emissary right in the eye. "This part of the quay is usually packed solid."

"You do know I can see through a masking spell?" said the emissary.

"Really? Is that part of Elvish magic? Oh look, there's a line of pelicans over the bay." Tindomul's face burned. A botched attempt to make the new ship invisible was the best way to draw attention to it, short of having a troop of dancing girls on the deck.

###

Tindomul returned to the Palace after seeing the emissary back to his ship. "We're doomed," he told his father.

Tar-Ciryatan looked unfazed. "The Elves might well report to the Valar, who will be watch their shores for our arrival. But by then, we will have already come and gone. Elves don't do anything quickly, neither do the Valar." He looked at his two sons. "We can do this, but we have to act quickly."

Early the next morning, Tindomul went down to the shipyards. Father was already there with the master shipwright.

In any large project, there are things which are absolutely needed, and things which can wait. The ship needed a watertight hall, a rudder, and sails, but it didn't need a figurehead or decorative paintwork.

"What's the least we can do and still be seaworthy? asked Father.

"The ship has to be rigged, but the rigging can be simplified. We need cleats to hold the rigging, but again, we can get by with just a few," said the shipwright.

Father waited until the workmen had stepped away, then told Tindomul, "Plan to sail in two days."


	5. Peaceful Protest

**Peaceful Protest**

Inside the palace, Tindomul found his father alone in his study. Tar-Ciryatan was reading a letter. Dozens more littered his desk.

"I've been flooded with messages from concerned citizens. Different handwriting, different words, but they all said the same thing. 'Don't break the Ban.' We tried to keep it quiet, but the midnight work on the new ship seems has stirred up the Faithful."

A servant knocked on the door. "Sir, a group of citizens requests an audience with you. They'd like to present a petition."

Tar-Ciryatan sighed. "Show them to the throne room. I'll be there in a moment." He turned to Tindomul. "This has to stop, or it will endanger the mission."

Tindomul followed Tar-Ciryatan to the throne room, then stood on the dais beside his father's throne, his hands on the hilt of his two-handed sword. The petitioner read from a scroll, and his supporters stood around him.

"I bring this petition from those of us who honor the old ways and who choose to obey the Valar." The man's face was pale and he was trembling, but his back was straight and he looked Tar-Ciryatan right in the eye.

###

That afternoon, Tindomul cut through the marketplace in the newer part of the city. The walls were painted deep reds and oranges, and the larger buildings were decorated with metal roofs.

In the center of the marketplace, a bronze statue of Tar-Ciryatan stood on a stone plinth. The statue captured him in mid-stride, the heel of his leading foot barely touching the stone. He carried a model ship, one of his own designs.

Among the handbills tacked to posts in the marketplace, the usual "lost dog" or "new shipment of silks just arrived" was something new. In huge letters, "Don't Break The Ban", stood above small print asserting that the Ban exists for a reason, the safety of every citizen on the Island.

Tindomul tore it off and crumpled in his hand. A row of ten more decorated a wall nearby. Identical handbills fluttered from every pillar in the market square.

In a corner of this market square, one of the Faithful stood on a crate, speaking to a dozen people crowded around him. Tindomul was too far away to catch the words of the speech, but the man was holding up his arms, and his face reflected strong emotion. As Tindomul watched, more people left the market stalls and drifted over to listen. This was not good.

###

Another day, another audience. Tindomul stood beside Tar-Ciryatan's throne. An assembly of the Faithful stood before the king, all of them in their most formal clothes, in the Elvish style.

A man stepped forward from the rest of the group. "We have a concern about the new ship. We believe it was built to sail to Valinor."

There was a long pause, and then Father spoke in his most soothing tones. "I assure you, the new ship has only one purpose, to carry messages to the Mainland," said Tar-Ciryatan. He lied easily. Tindomul was a little shocked.

"Will you give us your oath on that?" asked the man.

"I try to stay away from oaths. If you're familiar with the Elves and their doings, I'm sure you'll agree that swearing an oath can end very, very badly."


	6. Civil Unrest

**Civil Unrest**

Tindomul counted the coins in his purse, then draped a cloak over his shoulders. As an afterthought, he buckled on his sword belt.

"Are you sure you want to go out tonight? I opened an anonymous letter today that made my skin crawl," Father said.

"But it wasn't a specific threat? It didn't say why they were mad or what they were going to do about it? Then I wouldn't take it seriously," Tindomul said .

"Even so, watch you back when you go out. Take an armed escort with you, or don't go out at all. The mood of the city turned ugly these past few days."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful." Tindomul thought of using the invisibility spell on himself, the one that had worked so well on the new ship until the cargo vessel ran into it. He decided against it. He didn't want to get run over.

But the invisibility spell could be reworked without too much trouble. With a few minutes' thought, he came up with a modified version of the spell to make himself not invisible, but certainly much less noticeable.

Tindomul spoke the words of his new spell, then said goodnight to Father, who didn't even look up.

The gates around the Palace were closed at sunset. Tindomul nodded to the foot soldiers on duty. Normally they would have opened the sally port to let him through, but they didn't seem to notice him. He pushed the small door open himself. The hinges screamed, but the guards didn't even look his way.

Tindomul was barely clear of the Palace gates when he saw graffiti painted on a public building, "Obey the Ban," it said. One building over, paint on the bricks proclaimed, "No one Is Above The Law." Father was right. There was an evil mood hanging over the city.

Nailing handbills to posts was a lawful practice, even if it was annoying, but painting on the walls of public buildings was an act of vandalism. Peaceful protest had crossed the line into civil unrest.

The tavern sign for the _Legacy of Elros_ hung over a doorway. The glow of lamplight lit the building from within. It looked inviting, Tindomul wouldn't go in there anymore. The Faithful had made it their headquarters, and it would have been uncomfortable for anyone with his political beliefs.

The door opened and a fragment of song escaped, something about Black Númenorians and their fear of death. Tindomul bristled. He'd fought his first battle at sixteen when he'd boarded a smuggler's ship. Whatever else he was in life, he was no coward.

Two men left the tavern, each of them as tall as he was, but broader in the shoulder. He knew them slightly from University. They'd been drinking, and from their conversation, they were upset about the current political situation. If they decided to take it out on a member of the opposing faction, his royal blood wouldn't protect him, not from men who weren't in awe of his rank. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

The two men swerved to avoid running into him, but otherwise gave no sign they knew he was there. They didn't even lower their voices as they passed.

Shortly after, he came to a sign with a crown over a warship advertising the _Númenorian Arms._ Behind the glass, the room was filled with people. A thumping bass reached the street.

This was friendly territory. He pulled open the door and went inside. The noise from music, people talking, and the clatter of dishes hit like a rogue wave and the smell of yesterday's wine soaked into the floorboards made his eyes water.

A dozen of his friends, all of them Black Númenorians, packed around a battered table. He saw Sven, the one who'd given Tindomul the nickname Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Captain. He pulled up a stool and squeezed into a gap between Sven and Mikkel. They moved over to make room, but didn't return his greeting.

Sven had to raise his voice above the noise in the room. "My cousin got married yesterday and I only heard about it this afternoon." He sounded upset.

"Does he belong to the Faithful? Lots of families split over politics," said Mikkel.

The serving maid came over with a pitcher of wine and topped off their goblets.

"Lass? I need a goblet," Tindomul called to her retreating back. He tried again, but no luck.

"I was second-in-command on my last commission. I'd really like to be a captain on my next voyage," said Mikkel.

"I can arrange that for you," Tindomul said. It was a sweet offer, and he had the power to make it happen. He'd expected Mikkel to be all over him, but Mikkel didn't seem to have heard.

The serving maid came back with another pitcher of chilled wine and went around the table, filling goblets.

She turned to leave. Tindomul called, "Lass, can you bring me a goblet?" She never even looked at him.

###

The next morning, a demonstration closed down most of the city. The protesters carried signs, threw rotten fruit, and chanted insulting slogans at the soldiers called in to keep the peace. It was tense, but fell short of actual rioting. The crowd broke up before anyone was seriously hurt.

That evening, Tar-Ciryatan called an emergency meeting with his advisers. "Many of the people of Númenor want to defy the Ban. A small but vocal group, who call themselves the Faithful, oppose them. When they were writing letters and bringing petitions, it was manageable. Vandalism and demonstrations, that's civil disturbance and I won't have it."

###

The next day, Tindomul saw two soldiers stop a man dressed in the long robes, apparently one of the Faithful.

"You're carrying some papers. Hand them over," said one of the soldiers.

"You don't have the right to stop me, I've done nothing wrong," said the man.

"If you have nothing to hide, you wouldn't resist us. Let's see the papers you're carrying," said the soldier.

The man pulled out a scroll bound with string. The soldier unrolled it and studied what appeared to be a child's drawing. He folded it into quarters and handed it back.

"My child drew that. You've no cause to spoil it," said the man.

The street searches were in retaliation for the graffiti, vandalism, and violent protests. Tindomul didn't like seeing it happen, but he understood the necessity for it. He hoped it was enough to frighten the Faithful into backing down.

Further down the street, the doors of the courthouse stood open. Men in flowing robes crowded the front steps, trying to see in. Tindomul pushed between them and stood in the doorway of the courtroom. A hearing was in progress, and every seat was taken. Tindomul moved to the side of the room, beside a bailiff.

A man of middle years stood in the dock. His robes identified him as one of the Faithful. He looked like someone who'd never been in trouble with the law in his life. His manner seemed to say that this was all a misunderstanding, easily cleared up.

From behind a table on the dais, the judge spoke in grave tones.

"You're the owner of the _Legacy of Elros_? You're charged with running an establishment that disturbs the peace, in the form of excessive noise in the evenings, and an undue amount of foot traffic.

"It's a tavern, sir. That's what they're like. And mine is a sedate, well-behaved tavern, nothing like the _Númenor Arms_ down the street. _"_

"They're not on trial. You are," said the judge.

The judge found him guilty on all charges and levied an unusually large fine against the non-offense.

"One more thing. If I learn of are any unlawful meetings being held in your tavern, I won't just assess a fine next time, I'll place you under arrest."


	7. The Gloves Come Off

**The Gloves Come Off**

Perhaps it wasn't wise to move through the city alone, given how tense things had become in the last few days, although the newer areas around the marketplace ought to be safe enough, especially during the day.

He wove around the booths. Something was going on in the center of the square. A group of people stood around the statue of his father, pointing and laughing.

A sign hung around the statue's neck, a thin board with large letters painted on it, "Remove Me." It could be interpreted as a call to abdicate, although the maker could just as easily have claimed it referred to the sign itself.

A sheet of paper bearing the words, "The Ban" had been laid over the plinth. It had been arranged to look as if Tar-Ciryatan, with his his foot lifted to stride forward, was grinding it under his heel. The model boat he carried had been vandalized, too, with the words, "Valinor or Bust" in dripping red painted the length of its hull.

A call to abdicate was unpleasant but not illegal. People had a right to their opinion. But it was a very bad sign that the topic had come up at all.

###

At the _Númenorian Arms_ that evening, Tindomul squeezed in next to Sven and accepted a goblet of wine. A few minutes later, Mikkel came through the door. There was a purple bruise around his eye, and his lip was cut.

Tindomul gasped. "What happened to you?"

"On my way home last night, I took a shortcut. Someone knocked me on the head and took my money. His friend kicked me in the face when I was down," said Mikkel.

"Did you see who it was?" asked Tindomul.

"No, it was dark in the alley, and they caught me from behind."

Most likely, it was thieves. That's how they operated. But Mikkel was outspoken and well-known for being a Black Númenorian. He could have been attacked for his beliefs.

###

Back at the Palace, Tindomul realized he hadn't seen Griffin all day. Atanamir hadn't seen him either, nor had any of the servants.

"Don't worry, he'll turn up," said Father.

The bed felt empty without Griffin at his feet. The huge mastiff didn't turn up the next day, or the next. Tindomul was seriously worried.

"It's spring. He might have run off with a lady dog. If he's like every other dog, he'll be back in a day or two, looking terribly pleased with himself," said Atanamir.

Tindomul was reluctant to voice to his fears, that something had been done to Griffin in retaliation for the crackdown on the Faithful.

###

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the diamond-paned windows in Father's study, making the stained glass medallions glow like jewels.

Tindomul sat next to his father at a table overflowing with letters. He took one, then cracked its seal and skimmed the contents.

"concerned citizen … deeply upset … opposes those who would break the Ban." He tossed it in a bin. "Different writing, different choice of words, but always the same message."

He and his father had been working for over an hour, but the pile didn't look any smaller than when they'd started. He reached for another.

Beside him, Tar-Ciryatan opened a letter. "Oh, finally, a personal note from someone I like." His eyes moved over the page. Then he leaned back, his lips in a tight line.

"What's the matter?" asked Tindomul.

"It was from one of my closest friends. He said, using the most formal language possible, that given the current political situation, he desires no further contact with me." Father set the letter down and stared at something far away.

Tindomul ached for him. Father was trying to take Númenor into the modern world. But it was hard, when doing the right thing cost him his friends.

Just then, a window exploded, leaving a ragged hole yawning at the center. The stained glass medallion that had decorated its center, a ship in blue and green, was just gone.

"What the…" Father's eyes were wide.

A shard of glass fell from the window frame and shattered on the tiles. Something lay on the carpet in front of the hearth, the size of a fist, wrapped in paper and string. Tindomul crossed the room and picked it up.

"It feels like a rock," he said, handing it to his father.

Tar-Ciryatan cut the string and unwrapped the paper and read it. His brow furrowed. He started to crumple it up, but stopped. "This is evidence. When I learn who wrote it, I will have him hanged."

Tindomul stared with his mouth open. "What does it say?"

"It's a death threat."

A call to abdicate was worrisome, but threatening the king's life was treason.

###

That night, without any holidays to celebrate or ambassadors to entertain, dinner was a quiet affair in the royal apartments. Tar-Ciryatan sent the servants away, then got up and bolted the door behind them.

"I'm going to cut the head off this beast, by which I mean, I'm going to execute the leader of the Faithful," said Tar-Ciryatan.

"But we don't know who that is," said Tindomul.

"I had an informant report this afternoon. He belongs to one of the oldest and most respectable families on the Island, so this has to be handled delicately. We're gathering information on any minor offenses he might have committed. When we have enough to write a warrant, I'll have him arrested."

###

Tindomul led a group of soldiers through the cobbled streets of the oldest part of the city. The streets back here were narrow and irregular. Carved wood decorated the door and window frames. Alcoves in the stone walls held shrines where offerings of fresh flowers had been left. The district had been built over a thousand years ago in the city's earliest days, a historically preserved district favored by families of ancient lineage and ancient wealth, the lair of the Faithful.

He stopped in front of the door named by the informant, a residence of modest size, the home of one of the oldest families on the Island. Tindomul knew the house, although he hadn't been here since childhood. It was the home of one of his oldest friends, although they'd fallen out recently over political differences. He felt ill.

Tindomul struck the door with three blows of his fist. "Open in the name of the King."

The spyhole slid back. Tindomul undid the lock with an enchantment. He kicked the door open and strode inside, the soldiers at his back. Inside the single room, the father of his childhood friend was speaking to a group of the Faithful. The man faltered, but he recovered and kept talking.

"Who is your leader?" Tindomul demanded.

Several men glanced at the speaker, accidentally giving him away, but it didn't matter. The man straightened and looked him in the eye. "I am."

Tindomul took a deep breath. The leader, his friend's father, was a good person. Tindomul had always liked him.

"Arrest him." Tindomul's stomach twisted in knots. He hated having to do this.

###

The morning after the arrest, soldiers scrubbed the graffiti from the walls. A day later, it hadn't reappeared. There were no more demonstrations, no more acts of vandalism, and Elvish-style garb disappeared from the streets.

Tindomul breathed a sigh of relief. The crisis appeared to be over.


	8. A Cruel Blow

**A Cruel Blow**

The next morning, Tindomul went down to the harbor to watch the final preparations being made for the voyage. At the shipyard, workmen stood around the new vessel, waving their arms and cursing. The new ship seem to be riding low in the water and listing to starboard.

Two men worked the pumps, sending a torrent of water gushing over the side.

The shipwright was almost in tears. "The ship has been sabotaged. I don't know how it happened. The ship was never left alone. There were crews on every watch, all through the night."

Tar-Ciryatan joined them. "What happened?"

"She's taking on water at an alarming rate. We have to work the pumps hard just to keep her afloat. She's not seaworthy right now. We've looked everywhere for the leak but can't find it."

"Pull her out of the water and examine the hull. Pay special attention to the starboard side, near the keel, about a third of the way forward."

Father wasn't just the 12th king of Númenor, he was Ciryatan the shipbuilder, and he personally had designed this vessel.

"That's the spot where the hull is deepest, and it lies behind a bulkhead that could give a saboteur some privacy to work. A man with a hand screw could drew drill through the hull, out of sight behind a bulkhead and not be seen by the other workers."

"We should ask, who on the graveyard shift was seen with a handscrew, heading down into the belly of the ship." said Tindomul.

"You could ask, but you wouldn't learn anything. A handscrew such a common tool, no one carrying one into the hull would warrant a second glance," said the shipwright.

Tar-Ciryatan ordered the ship pulled out of the water. It took most of the day. As expected, the hull had a hole burrowed into the new wood, as thick as a man's thumb, located almost exactly where Tar-Ciryatan said they would be.

"This ship cannot sail. We'll have to strip every board from the hull to replace the damaged one, right next to the keel."

Tindomul felt achingly tired. The mission was off.

Dinner was a subdued affair as each of them wallowed in their own gloomy thoughts. Father lifted a goblet. "Here's to what could have been. Let's resign ourselves to an ordinary life, then infirmity and a slow, unavoidable slide into death."

Fun times.


	9. A Patch of Luck

**A Patch of Luck**

Tindomul couldn't bear listening to his father and brother rehashing the disaster. As soon as he could decently get away, he left slipped out of the Palace on the off-chance his friends would be at the _Númenorian Arms_. They were. He claimed a place at the long table and accepted the goblet of wine that was placed in front of him.

The Spring Equinox had been a week ago, yet the evening was chilly. A late fire burned in the grate. Sparks popped from time to time.

"Why the long face, Tindomul?" asked Sven. "I'm guessing you finally worked up the nerve to ask out a young lady, and she turned you down?"

Tindomul's shyness with girls was a source of great amusement to his friends. He squirmed in his seat. If thought he lived another 5,000 years, he'd still be bad at talking to girls.

"Do you know Mrs. Thumb and her four lovely daughters?" asked Sven.

"Maybe they could give you a hand," said Mikkel.

The others laughed. Tindomul didn't get it. Then he did. His face burned.

At least none of them knew about the mission to sail West. Nor did they know about the sabotage, so at least he didn't have to talk about it. The conversation swirled around him and he stared off into space, his eyes resting on a row of wine casks. Most had already been tapped, but one still held its wooden plug. His eyes locked on it.

"Why are you looking at those barrels of cheap stuff? I'd rather drink bilge," said Swen.

Tindomul jumped to his feet and the three-legged stool he'd been sitting on clattered to the floorboards. "If you'll excuse me."

"Maybe that girl agreed to see him, and he only just remembered it now. I've never seen him move so fast," said Sven.

Tindomul reached the door in a few strides. He knew how to fix the hull. It wouldn't be pretty, but it didn't need to be.

###

Back at the Palace, Tindomul pulled Father aside and told him how they could save the ship. Tindomul could barely contain himself, but Father didn't share his excitement.

"Tindomul, have you been licking colorful toads?" Not the reaction Tindomul had hoped for.

His father explained. "No master shipbuilder patches a damaged hull, not on a ship that's still under construction. Maybe if you were at sea and taking on water, you'd try to patch the hole. But if you made it back to port, you'd do what any sensible person would do, strip off the planks and replace the damaged one."

"The patch doesn't have to last long. We can fix it properly afterwards," said Tindomul.

"The patch might not hold, and if it goes, the ship could be lost with all hands." Father met his eye and held it. Tindomul was going to captain the vessel. If the ship were lost, he'd be lost too.

Tindomul tried again. "On a routine run to the Mainland, repeated over and over, I'd say yes, a patch is too risky. But for a dangerous mission with a crew that knows the risk, the patch is the least of our troubles."

Father pursed his lips. "It will take five days to reach the coast of Valinor. That's a long time, but now that March is over, the winds will have died down and the seas will be calmer." He was silent for a time. "I don't like it. We're betting immortality against the risk of you being lost at sea, but if you want to try, then all right."

"So we'll patch the hull, and if it looks like it will hold, we'll sail as soon as she's back in the water." Tindomul felt happy for the first time in days.

###

Moonlight reflected from the surface of the harbor. Tindomul stood to the side and listened to yet another nighttime discussion between Father and the master shipbuilder.

"How long will it take to patch the hull?" asked Tar-Ciryatan.

"We'll have to pull it out of the water, but if we work through the night, we can finish the patch before morning," said the master shipwright.

"Can the men work by moonlight? I don't want so much as a covered lamp drawing attention to what we're doing. Oh, and can we do the rest of the rigging and provisioning at the same time, while the ship's in dry dock?" asked Tar-Ciryatan.

"It's a lot harder to carry water casks up a ladder than to roll them on a ramp from dockside. The men won't be happy about it, but yes, it can be done," said the shipwright.

Tar-Ciryatan lowered his voice. "One last question, do we trust the shipyard workers? One of them is a saboteur."

"There was a shift change at sunset. And no one will be allowed to work alone. If anyone goes down to the hold, he'll have another set of eyes on him at all times," said the master shipwright.


	10. The Biter Gets Bit

**The Biter Gets Bit**

Sometime before dawn, word came that the ship had been patched and was back in the water. Tindomul followed his father down to the docks. The ship rode high in the water, her deck level and true. The pumps were quiet.

"Now to keep her safe until we're ready to sail. We need to hide her where no one would ever look. I'm thinking of that section of the quay in front of the wharf, the area that's sort of rough and disreputable.

"You'll want to set a guard," said the harbor master.

"A guard would draw too much attention. I'd rather hide in plain sight. Tindomul, what can you do for me?" asked Father.

Tindomul considered the problem. The side of the hull still bore a gash, a deep scratch marring the new wood. Invisibility had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but it had ended badly. But glamour held some interesting possibilities. "I can cast an enchantment over it to make it look ordinary."

"Not good enough. Without a guard, someone might climb aboard, looking for things to steal," said Father.

"I could make it look run down, and maybe make it smell like a hold full of fish left too long in the sun. That ought to keep people away."

"It won't really smell like fish?" asked Father, looking alarmed.

"No, that's just part of the illusion. When the spell wears off, the smell will disappear, too." Tindomul hoped that was true.

They arrived at the rough-and-tumble part of the wharf when most of the usual denizens were still sleeping it off. They moved the boat to an empty slip the harbor master showed them. It's owner, a curmudgeon who wouldn't have let them use his slip, had just left for the Mainland. The harbor master said he wouldn't be back for months. Except for the harbor master, no one dared touch anything he owned. Therefore, no one would bother the disguised ship, and Tar-Ciryatan had no need to guard it.

Tindomul turned it into a derelict vessel, still floating but without masts, without a rudder, grey wood broken away along the rails, sails black with mildew and bound up, stiff and rotting. Long stains marred the planks, and tracks of rust ran down the gunwales from rusted fittings. He laid on another enchantment to make the ship smell of bilge water and rotting fish. He would have liked to make it worse, but smells like charred wood or decaying flesh were too difficult for a beginner. The wind shifted and the stench brought tears to his eyes. Good enough.

"That's very convincing. It's not real, is it?" asked Father. He looked uneasy.

"No, of course not. You can come aboard and touch it. When you're looking right at it, you can see through the glamour."

Father leaned closer and stared through narrowed eyes. "You're right, I can just see through the spell, if I focus on something familiar. But how long will the spell last? Do you have to come back and renew it?" asked Father.

"I'm not sure. I'll come back later to see how it's holding up," said Tindomul.

Father and the harbor master had more faith in Tindomul's ability than Tindomul did. But they weren't the ones who'd given his eyebrows to science.

###

Time was running out. They'd planned to sail by the end of March, but the sabotage made that impossible. But it wasn't too late, they could still reach the shores of Valinor before the Valar got wind of their plans.

On the first of April, Tindomul accompanied his father to the borrowed slip where they'd hidden the new ship. As they approached, they heard voices raised in anger.

A cargo vessel rocked on the swell, apparently shut out of its slip by the small, derelict vessel. Broken masts protruded from the water and ruined edges of the hull stuck out like charred black teeth. Random pieces of broken wood floated on the oily water around it. An acrid smell hung over everything.

Tindomul stood with his jaw open.

"That looks real. The charred smell is particularly convincing," said Father, a little doubtfully.

A prosperous merchant dressed for a long sea voyage stood at the edge of the quay, shaking his fist at the harbor master. "That's my slip. The rent's paid up through the end of the year. I don't use it often, but it's still my slip."

"I'm sorry. I thought you'd be gone to the Mainland for months. I was just using it for a day or two. I didn't think you'd mind." The harbor master looked miserable.

"I was gone less than a day when I realized I'd forgotten something. One always forgets one thing on a journey, but I can't buy a shipload of grain without a letter of credit, so I had to turn back. And what do I find but this garbage scow in my slip. I poured a cask of lamp oil all over its decks, then lit a torch and threw it on board. The derelict went up in flames, then burned to the waterline and sank."

Tar-Ciryatan looked blank, as if not able to sort illusion from reality. Unfortunately, there was nothing to sort. It was all real.

"I don't suppose you can fix it?" Tar-Ciryatan asked Tindomul.

 _###_

Tindomul followed his father back to the Palace, totally dejected. There would be no voyage to the Undying Lands this year, and probably not during their lifetimes. Whatever else lay ahead for them, it involved old age, infirmity, and death.

Back in the royal apartments, Griffin lay on the painted tiles in front of the hearth. Tindomul knelt and wrapped his arms around the mastiff's neck. He lifted his head and thumped his tail on the floor.

"You got your dog back. Well, that's one good thing that happened today," said Father.

Father dismissed the servants, then spoke to Tindomul and Atanamir. "Well, that didn't work. What are we going to do next?"

"I think Tindomul should start working on a life-extension spell," said Atanamir.

Atanamir imagined a life-extension spell that would give them the long years the Elves enjoyed, along with Elvish youth and freedom from disease.

The life-extension spell that actually existed could add years to a man's life, but did nothing for the infirmities of old age. A man would find himself stooped over, his hands turned into claws by rheumatism, unable to see or hear. Unable to die. With his self-taught non-expertise, the spell Tindomul might actually be able to pull off would do all that, with some unintended consequences thrown into the mix.

His father and brother looked at him, waiting for his answer. The dog lay on the floor, snoring softly and passing gas.

Tindomul shook his head. "A life-extension spell? Let's not."


End file.
